


Perfect companion

by kate_the_reader



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Memory, Totems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-03 01:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16316198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: "It had an almost malevolent sheen, its red glow like a drop of blood in the cup of his palm."





	Perfect companion

**Author's Note:**

> An insight into why Arthur and Eames chose the totems they did, in the world of [And so it begins](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13754250/chapters/31607829)

When Mal had first mentioned her idea: something to remind yourself of what was real and what only a dream, Arthur had known exactly what he would choose.

She had shown him hers, a top remembered from her childhood, that would spin and spin endlessly, perfectly balanced, in a dream, and only in the real world would wobble and fall. Apt, really. The real world was so unpredictable, so full of ways to fall, to fail, to hurt and be hurt. Dreams weren’t safe either, but when the two blurred and blended, when you couldn’t keep them separate, that was truly dangerous. He knew this, had known this since Macau, since Bali.

You couldn’t find what he was looking for in reputable places, but he knew some disreputable ones too. When it arrived, in an absurd box, nestled in satin like a piece of jewelry, he hesitated at first to touch it, to pick it up and hold it in his hand, to feel its particular weight. It had an almost malevolent sheen, its red glow like a drop of blood in the cup of his palm. He shook it, rolled it: four, four, four.

He tested it in a dream: three, two, six, five, five, one, six. Never four.

He carried it in his pocket, small enough not to be noticed, not to ruin the lines of his trousers. But when he sat down, the fabric over his thighs taut, it showed as a lump, and its corners dug into his flesh, a hard reminder, not just of reality but of his own stupidity. His own gullibility. His terrible lack of trust in the man he loved, the man who loved him. If he could have forgotten, he might have been happier, but he could not, would not let himself. So it was a hard, necessary reminder. 

And then Cobb went and found Eames, where Arthur knew he would be, because he always knew where Eames was, forced himself to know. 

Seeing him again was a shock. He was the same, and yet different. Older, of course, with a new even thicker power to his body that he hid in dated clothes — clothes Arthur hated, until he understood what Eames was doing. Or thought he understood. He couldn’t presume to really understand Eames, after betraying him. Still, he couldn’t help wondering about the body under those clothes, which he knew and yet did not know. It was no longer his place to know the lines of Eames’ body, the hard and the tender. He could see only what Eames chose to show. It was difficult, watching his hands — sketching his ideas in the air, sliding into his pockets, a finger at his mouth, drawing Arthur’s unwilling eyes.

Arthur didn’t really need to roll his die to know a dream from reality now. He saw Dom going into bathrooms, anywhere out of sight so he could feverishly spin his top — Mal’s top — to remind himself of reality, or perhaps to hope that he had slipped back down with her. 

He explained the idea to Ariadne, showing her his, snatching it back when she reached for it. Who really knew if letting someone else touch it was wrong, or dangerous in some way. They were always making things like that up, there were no rules for pioneers.

He didn’t need to take it out in public, he could feel it. It was surely his imagination that Eames’ eyes strayed to the lump of it. But he felt the weight of Eames’ gaze on him more and more often. He took to sitting next to him, so Eames couldn’t rest that heavy gaze on him without drawing the attention of the others. Then he didn’t have to look at Eames, but he was even more aware of him, his scent: his familiar aftershave with an undertang of sweat, and something new, the pomade he was using to keep his hair confined to the style that matched his clothes. Arthur couldn’t help admiring such a careful detail — not everyone could commit so fully to a disguise.

Arthur really needed to stop being so _aware_ of Eames, so attuned to him, his nerves a trip wire. He couldn’t stop, though, so he saw without looking when Eames slid his hand into his pocket and appeared to rub his fingers across something there. He shouldn’t have been wondering what that was, but he knew the feel of those fingers, rubbing lightly across his skin, digging in, holding.

One day when they were alone in the warehouse, Eames slipped his hand into that pocket, staring straight at Arthur, daring him to look away, and brought out a casino chip. He played it over the top of his knuckles, still watching for Arthur’s reaction. Arthur tried so hard not to show one, but he couldn’t hide from Eames. The minute tightening of his eyes told him Eames knew without being told that this token was a perfect companion to Arthur’s. He was forced to nod. Eames nodded himself and put the chip back in his pocket. Later, when Arthur saw his fingers playing over it he wondered what the telltale sign of reality was. Surely something Eames was aware of without seeing, something in the feel of it.

\-----

In Eames’ little house in Mombasa, he sees it on the nightstand when he rolls over and reaches for the water bottle. He gets up, slipping out from under the sheet, away from the solid heat of Eames, and crouches down to where he dropped his trousers. Gropes in the pocket and closes his fingers on the small lump. He brings it back to the bed as Eames turns over, reaching for him. He sits on the edge of the mattress and opens his hand, revealing it there, gleaming like a drop of blood in the cup of his palm. He half turns, and Eames leans up on an elbow to see. He doesn’t say anything, just nods. Arthur rolls it; it comes to rest next to Eames’. Four. But Arthur doesn’t need to look. He gets back under the sheet. “They match,” he says, as he fits his body into the space Eames makes for him.

“Yes,” says Eames. “A pair.”

Later, though, when he wakes again as a cool evening breeze pushes the curtain in at the window, Arthur lies and looks at them there together on the nightstand. Two red totems. He knows why he chose his, a hard reminder of his terrible mistake. But why would Eames want to be reminded of that? 

He rolls back, slides down until his mouth is at the dip of Eames’ throat. “Why a chip?” he asks. Eames is still asleep and Arthur’s voice is muffled against his damp and salty skin. “Why choose a chip? Why remind yourself?”

But Eames is not asleep, and the rumble of his voice buzzes against Arthur’s mouth as he says: “So I never gamble on us. So I give us more than one chance. So I come back and try again.”


End file.
